


The Caged Birds Sing

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-01
Updated: 2003-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know your weaknesses, Wesley. All those little dark places...' A backstory for Wes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Dark Places

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

NOTES: This fic is actually the final 2 chapters of a set of vignettes I wrote as backstories to 'Soul Cages'. However, these are the only chapters concerning Wesley, and the fic can be read as a standalone. (The other non-Wes chapters can be found at ff.net, under my pen name.)

Chapter Title and quote come from Soul Cages Chp.7

 

Chapter 1: Little Dark Places

 

‘You know I can break you, Wesley. I know your weaknesses. All those little dark places…’

(‘Teuer’ – ‘The Ninth World’)

 

The world outside the window was grey and leaden, typical end of summer term weather. For the previous three weeks, as he had sat his first year exams, the sun had baked the cricket pitches, turned the school gym into a sweltering approximation of hell on earth. But the day, almost the moment the academy had broken up for the holidays, the sky had darkened, clouds gathering ominously overhead. It had been threatening rain all day, but so far the weather had held, the clouds growing ever more swollen and grey.

He watched as the fields passed by lazily, a dull patchwork of green and bleached out yellow. Some of them contained large rolls of hay, already encased in black plastic tarpaulins, in readiness for the imminent storm. The train lurched gently, swaying to and fro, one of the more ancient examples of British Rail rolling stock. He guessed that these carriages were probably pre-war, each one a separate compartment, connected only by a long passageway on one side. And this was a branch line, not used by commuters, and thus not considered worthy of modernization.

Indeed, he was the only traveller in his particular compartment, and he doubted there were more than a dozen passengers on the entire train. Certainly none of his schoolmates were on board. Most of them had been retrieved by their parents, who had attended prize day, and then removed their offspring for a celebratory tea in the village cake shop. 

He had known, of course, what to expect, after the letter containing details of his travel arrangements had been delivered to his housemaster the week before the end of term. Had guessed even before it arrived. He should really have been grateful they had remembered at all.

He stared out of the window, the overhead light in his compartment flickering slightly as the train juddered into a tunnel. The world outside was plunged into sudden darkness, and he studied the reflection in the window with distaste. His thin frame, too small for his eleven years, looked even smaller, due to the huge school blazer that still hung past his wrists. His mother had bought it a size too big, insisting that he would grow into it, would probably outgrow it by the end of the year. He was still waiting for that growth spurt.

His hair was short and dark, and despite frequent applications of comb and water, still quite unruly. It was currently standing up at the back in little spikes, its darkness emphasizing his pale face. His too blue eyes were framed by penny-shaped lenses; the glasses that he had to wear pretty much all the time. He hated his glasses. They were just another reason why he was not good enough, and never would be.

The lights sputtered again, and this time failed, plunging the compartment into total blackness. The reflection of the little boy vanished, and Wesley was back in the dark.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The train pulled into the village station just after three, and Wesley gathered his bags, slinging them over his thin shoulders wearily. He opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the platform, then trailed his way to the luggage compartment.

The guard eyed him with irritation, breathing out a stream of cigarette smoke.

‘What do you want, sonny?’

Wesley shifted his feet uncomfortably.

‘My trunk, sir. It’s there, behind those sacks.’

The man sighed theatrically, and ground his cigarette under his foot deliberately.

‘How do I know it’s yours?’

‘Um, it’s got my initials on it – W.W.P. W-Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.’ He managed to stammer.

Almost immediately the man’s demeanour changed, he got that look in his eyes that Wesley had got used to seeing when he told anyone his name.

‘Sorry, son. Didn’t realize who you were. You just home from boarding school?’ The man asked, as he hauled the heavy metal trunk onto the platform.

He nodded, knew that any discussion of the true nature of his ‘boarding school’ was unnecessary, and also expressly forbidden.

‘Your Mum and Dad coming to pick you up, then? That trunk’s far too heavy for the likes of you to be carrying home.’

He felt his face flame, hated the hot rush of tears that suddenly flooded his eyes, threatening to spill onto his cheeks. He removed his glasses, brushed his hand across his eyes roughly, replacing the spectacles firmly.

‘Um, I don’t know.’

He looked up and down the platform, beyond the station and into the small car park nearby. It was empty.

The man was now looking at him with a hateful mixture of pity and compassion.

‘Never you mind, sonny. They probably got the times mixed up. Tell you what, why don’t I arrange to have the post van deliver your trunk up to the house. Then you can walk home, and give your parents a surprise.’

Wesley nodded, thanking the guard politely, as he had been taught. He set off through the station, thinking that it really wasn’t that far to the house, and his other bags weren’t really that heavy. He had just made it out of the village when the storm that had been gathering all day broke, and the heavens finally opened. 

He trudged doggedly along the side of the road, his brown leather oxfords gradually becoming saturated. His socks were soaking wet, and rain dripped off the peak of his school cap, splashing onto his glasses.

‘Bugger.’ He whispered, using the worst word he knew, confident that there was no one else fool enough to be out in this weather to overhear him. He said it over and over, rhythmically, a mantra as he plodded along the verge, revelling in the sheer recklessness of the word. 

He made it to the entrance gates of his house, the long gravel driveway extending before him.

‘Bugger.’ He said it one more time, knew he would not risk using such language within those gates.

The rain was now easing off slightly, which made him think that the gods, if they actually existed, really didn’t like him very much. He wondered what it was he had done to piss them off so badly. Then remembered.

The solid oak double doors to the entrance porch were already pushed open, and he stepped onto the tiled floor, dropping his bags beside the brass umbrella stand. He wiped his feet diligently on the mat, and removed his cap, running wet fingers through his untidy hair. He hung his cap on the tall ebony hat stand, and placed his hand gently on the handle of the porch door. It opened easily, and Wesley stepped into the main hall of his home.

It was cool and dark; the heavy oak panelling that covered the walls absorbed any light that managed to find its way into the hall. Currently the only illumination was from the pale rays of post rainstorm sunshine, refracted by the leaded lights in the porch door. They bounced off the intricately tiled floor and sparked the brass stair rods delicately.

He stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs, blinking furiously.

Remembering.

A childhood game, a favourite pastime, sledging down the stairs on one of his mother’s tin tea trays. You had to swerve hard before you reached the second stair from the bottom, or you would hit the console table next to the entrance porch. One time he had turned too late, had gone crashing into the table, knocking the antique Tiffany lamp onto the tiled floor, shattering it into hundreds of tiny fragments.

Mum had been furious, and had sent him to his room to await judgement, which had been duly delivered by his father’s firm hand. There had been no great weight of anger behind his father’s reprimand; just the tiniest hint of surprise that he, Wesley, would do such a reckless thing. But that was before.

He took a step back from the staircase, and looked around him. On his right, a door opened onto the sitting room, a room full of antique furniture and expensive objets d’art. Not a room Wesley liked to spend much time in; his natural clumsiness seemed to escalate when he entered rooms such as this one.

On his left was his father’s study. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this room. It was rather dark and oppressive, the walls lined with deep oak shelves, heavy with leather bound volumes. Some antique texts, source books, grammars and dictionaries, a collection that was rare and unique. He loved his father’s books, had discovered that he had a talent for memorizing facts, for learning and translating other languages, and he was truly fascinated by these books.

But the study wasn’t just about books. This was where his father spent a great deal of his time when he wasn’t at the Council, and he demanded absolute silence in the house when he was working. Wesley had learned to move around the house silently, avoiding the room as much as possible.

He moved down the hall, past the double doors that led into the formal dining room on his left, towards the long panelled wall at the end of the passage way. On his right was another door, set into the intricately carved wood of the staircase. It was not immediately obvious, seemed to be simply one of a long expanse of panels that started at the foot of the stairs, and reached almost to the end wall. He knew it was there, though, its presence identified by a brass key set into the lock.

On the opposite wall, between the kitchen and breakfast room doors, was another long table, this one decorated by a large vase of flowers. His mother liked to have fresh flowers in the hall, even though they never seemed to survive very long in the semi gloom. The current arrangement was mainly huge white lilies, with a few stems of greenery mixed among them. The smell from them was incredibly powerful, and Wesley found himself suddenly and inexplicably tearful. 

He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer.

‘Wesley!’

A stern voice split the silence, full of exasperated irritation. Wesley shoved his glasses back onto his nose and turned immediately, straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders, hands stiff by his sides.

His father was not happy. He was standing at the porch door, raincoat in one hand, car keys in the other.

‘I have been waiting at the station since a quarter to four.’

Wesley looked at the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. Almost four fifteen.

‘I called there for you on the way home from my Council meeting. Would you mind telling me where you were?’

His voice was very quiet, but Wesley knew that was not always a good sign. God, he hadn’t been home ten minutes, and he was already in trouble.

‘Um, the train got in at three, Father. I – I thought that…’

What had he thought? That they had forgotten him, were too preoccupied to remember about him. He wasn’t about to tell his father that.

‘Thought what, boy? Come on, speak up.’

‘I – I don’t know, sir.’ It was a lie, but it was the safest answer by far.

‘So you decided to walk home by yourself. What about your trunk?’

This was just getting worse.

‘Um, the guard at the station said he would have it sent up to the house with the post van.’

His father set the keys down on the lamp table, dropped his raincoat on a chair. 

‘Come here, Wesley.’

All good sense should have made him turn and run, but the instinct to obey that voice was deeply ingrained in him. Before he knew it, he was standing before the man, trying to control the trembling in his knees.

His father dropped his hand onto Wesley’s shoulder, and his face creased into a frown, as his fingers felt the dampness of the grey serge blazer. Wesley swallowed silently. 

‘You’re soaked through, boy!’

This wasn’t what he had been expecting, and he raised his head at the unexpected concern in his father’s voice.

‘I’m sorry I walked home by myself, Father.’

The hand at this shoulder retained its firm hold, and he was turned to face the stairs. So he was in trouble after all. His father stilled him with one hand, his long fingers biting into soft muscle. Wesley tensed, waiting.

But the blow he was expecting did not fall. Instead, his father shoved him gently in the small of the back.

‘Go on upstairs, boy, and get out of those wet things. When you’ve changed, come downstairs for tea. Your mother will be wondering where you are.’

His voice was gruff, and Wesley did as he was bid, so surprised by this unaccustomed solicitude that he almost believed his father.

Almost.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He crept downstairs as quietly as possible; aware that his father was already at work in his study, and that any unnecessary noise would have unpleasant consequences for him. His father had made that very clear during dinner the previous evening.

His mother had greeted him, rather absently, as he had known she would. He had gone to her, and kissed her lightly, and she had started, then reached up to her cheek.

‘Wesley, dear, you’re home. You met your father at the station, then?’ 

And then his father had started in on the reprimand he had clearly been itching to give. There had been a long lecture on his foolishness, and a solemn warning that such behaviour would not be tolerated. Wesley knew his father well enough to take him at his word.

He tiptoed past the study, hoping to make it into breakfast without being noticed, but his luck was out.

‘Wesley, my boy. A word, if you please.’

His father sat at his desk, examining the morning post. With some degree of trepidation, he edged into the room, and with growing wariness approached the desk. He recognized the crest on the pristine white envelope that lay open on the top of the pile. His father was reading the contents of the envelope.

‘I assume you know what this is?’

He felt his stomach lurch; his heart seemed to skip a beat.

‘My school report, sir.’

He knew that he had done well in all his academic subjects, had gained A grades in all of them, and scored top marks in Latin and Ancient Greek. That wasn’t the cause of the horrible dizzying nausea in the pit of his empty stomach. It was the results of the practical tests in his tactical fighting skills that were the source of his terror. He had fared abysmally. No matter how hard he trained, how often he practised, he did not seem to be able to improve.

‘I am pleased to see that you are maintaining your studies diligently, my boy. However, I am very disappointed with your battle and tracking skills. You failed your fencing practical, and barely passed in the other disciplines.’

He paused, steepling his fingers together precisely.

‘It will not do, Wesley. Wyndam-Pryce’s do not fail. You know that.’

As if it was his choice to fail.

‘I know, sir. I’m sorry.’ He really didn’t know what else to say.

The older man stood up from his desk, folded his hands behind his back, deliberately.

‘I suppose I must take a share of the blame. I admit that I have not pushed you in these areas, as much as I should have. Perhaps I have allowed myself to become preoccupied.’

He now walked over to the antique ebony cabinet where the weapons were stored, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the doors.

‘That will change. We will begin a regime of training this summer, and you will improve your techniques with all these weapons.’

He indicated to the cabinet, and Wesley felt his heart sink.

‘You will improve, Wesley, is that clear?’

He nodded, could not speak without betraying the tremor in his voice.

‘Very well. We will begin this afternoon, with fencing practice.’

He lifted the smaller epee from the cabinet, and for a moment he said nothing, simply held the thin blade in his hand, gazing at it, lost in thought. Then he snapped back to reality.

‘It’s time you fulfilled your destiny, my boy.’

 

*~*~*~*

 

It had been an unmitigated disaster. The almost desperate desire to please and the fear of disappointing his father were a dreadful combination. By the end of the session, every muscle in his body was aching, and his father was rapidly losing patience with him.

‘Honestly, boy, you would think you had never held a sword before today. I don’t know what’s to be done with you.’

He had sent him to his room, and Wesley had fled gratefully, glad to be released from his father’s presence. He had spent the rest of the afternoon reading the text that he had been set for that day, and had lost himself in the beauty of the Greek myths. He was to report to his father after tea, to be tested on what he had read. He didn’t really mind that, knew the text as well as his father.

He carried the book downstairs; saw the reading lamp glowing on his father’s desk.

‘Father, I’ve finished the work you set for me.’

The older man set down his pen, and took a sip from the coffee cup on his desk.

‘Hm. Let’s hope you make a better job of your studies than you did of your fencing.’

Wesley felt his face redden.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Give it here.’

Perhaps it was his eagerness to prove to his father that he could do something right. Perhaps it was the growing stiffness of his aching joints. Perhaps it was just his innate clumsiness. He moved to the desk to give his father the book, and stumbled. The book slipped from his hand, and collided with the coffee cup.

Time seemed to slow. Wesley watched in fascinated horror, as a dark pool of coffee bled across the manuscript his father had been working on. He raised his eyes to meet his father’s. The man’s face was thunderous, his eyes storm cloud grey, but his voice was calm, terrifyingly so.

Wesley, with a wisdom borne of recent bitter experience, knew enough not to cry.

Waited for the lecture to be over, for judgement to be pronounced. His clumsiness, his stupidity. He whispered an apology, aware that it was an exercise in futility, that it would not change the outcome. Obeyed the orders, hoping to appease his father, make judgement less harsh. It never seemed to.

He was overcome by a feeling of helplessness; trying to prepare himself for what was coming, yet knowing that was not possible. No help, no protection; his memories of previous times provided no clues on how to survive it.

So he bent his head, listened as the lecture was given, and silently prayed that he would be able to keep the tears inside until it was over.

Of course he couldn’t. Had never been able to. So the darkness under the stairs beckoned.

His father’s hand, tight on his arm, pulled him to the carved door. And he couldn’t help the words that came out in a tiny scared voice.

‘Please, father. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder, I’ll do better, I promise.’ Anything, anything. Begging to be forgiven.

But the hand at his arm gripped tighter.

‘You must learn, Wesley. A watcher does not cry.’

And he was pushed into the blackness of the cupboard, the door closing firmly behind him. A quiet click as the key turned in the lock.

A moment later he heard his mother in the hall, her voice soft, pleading his case.

‘He’s only a little boy, Roger. Do you have to be so hard on him?’

‘He will be a watcher. It’s his destiny now. He has to be taught these lessons.’

His voice dropped a little, and Wesley pressed his head against the door, trying to hear the rest of his father’s reply.

‘I was too soft before. I won’t make that mistake again.’

There was the sound of retreating footsteps, and the lamp in the hall was switched off, the thin line of light under the cupboard door extinguished.

And Wesley was back in the dark.


	2. Sacrifices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title and Quote from Soul Cages Chap. 1

NOTES: Chapter Title and Quote from Soul Cages Chap. 1

 

Chapter 2: Sacrifices

 

'It was easy to stand by, allow evil to work insidiously, become complicit by default. Opposing it was a difficult, painful business. It required sacrifices, and he had already made many of those.'

('Teuer' - 'In the Chaos of Cages')

 

Time was distorted in the darkness below the stairs. It did not appear to obey the laws of physics, as if this small space was exempt from reality. That didn't seem such a far-fetched notion to him. Sometimes it felt like hours, time dilating wildly, the tick of grandfather clock stretching unnaturally outside his prison.

And no one came; no one acknowledged his presence in this enclosed space. And then he wondered if he actually existed in here, or if he was just a figment of his own imagination.

Out of sight, out of mind. The invisible boy. 

It had been this way for over two years. He shifted against what he guessed must be the wall, and shivered. It was always cold in here. He reached up and pulled a heavy raincoat from the pegs above him, spread it around his shoulders and hunched his knees under it. It provided a little warmth, and he closed his eyes, relaxing a fraction.

The blind darkness of the cupboard served to heighten his other senses, the feel of the waxed cotton Barbour rough against his chin, the smell of it reminding him faintly of his father. Mingling with another scent, the strong pepper spiced sweetness of the lilies in the hall. It was a perfume he hated, couldn't smell without his throat constricting, his eyes flooding with tears.

He wasn't going to think about it. Not a place to go. Not when he was already so far into the dark. If he went there, he might never come back again. Might truly become invisible. Then again, considering this evening's events, perhaps invisibility might not be such a terrible thing.

As if he had a choice in that.

It was always the words that hurt most. The words stung more than his father's hand, which admittedly was fairly painful. Before, he had been strict, but always fair, and he had never spoken purposely to injure. Now, there seemed to be a calculated cruelty to his reprimands, leaving raw wounds, which could not heal. 

And simply confirmed what Wesley already knew.

He was to blame.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He shifted the gear into neutral, and pulled on the handbrake, and allowed the engine to idle at the traffic lights.

'Well, boys. Which of you wants to tell me the history of the building on our right?'

There was silence from the back seat for the first few moments, and he glanced in his rear view mirror. His older boy was rolling his eyes theatrically, obviously considering himself far too old for such games. But the other little boy was looking towards the front seat nervously, clearly trying to work up the courage to speak.

'Um, it's Clifford's Tower, Father.'

Another exaggerated eye roll from his older brother.

'The present stone tower was built in the thirteenth century, but the original castle keep was made of wood.'

He turned his head a little to address his younger son.

'That's quite correct, Wesley. Go on.'

The child swallowed nervously, and continued in a quiet voice.

'During the eleventh century, many of the b-barons borrowed money from the wealthy Jews of the area to fund their crusades. The, um, burgesses of the town were jealous of them and spread rumours about them,'

The child had obviously studied the subject diligently.

'And who led the attack on the Jewish community in York?'

He was thinking hard, his blue eyes screwed up in concentration.

'Um, R - Richard Malebys, Sheriff of the county. He owed the Jews lots of money. The mob began burning the Jews out of their homes, so they took refuge in the king's Castle.'

'Dates, Wesley?'

'S-sixteenth of March, um, 1190?' There was a questioning note in his response.

He nodded, quietly impressed by his son's recall of the facts.

'And the events of that night?'

'They began to burn the wooden keep on the motte beside the castle. The Jews were trapped inside. They had t-two choices. They could surrender themselves and face torture at the hands of the raging mob.'

'Or?'

The little boy's voice grew softer.

'Or kill themselves.'

'And they chose the latter.'

He paused, turned the car into the car park by the River Ouse.

'A rather shameful chapter in our country's history. Certainly not our finest hour.'

He turned the engine off, and undid his seat belt, turned to look at his younger son.

'Is that what I caught you reading last night?'

Wesley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, evidently remembering the previous evening's events.

'Yes, sir.'

Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to chastise the boy... but rules were rules. Wesley knew better than to disobey him. He got out of the car, both boys following suit. He reached out a hand, rested it on Wesley's shoulder briefly. The eight year old trembled slightly, then became very still. Beside them, Will was already bouncing with impatience.

'Father, can we go to the Dungeons first? Please?'

He lifted his hand, and sighed.

'Very well. We can take the river path.'

'Come on, Wes!' 

The twelve year old shoved his brother in the small of his back, and Wesley stumbled, almost tripping on an errant shoelace.  
He sighed again, almost inaudibly, watched his sons head off along the path, the younger struggling to keep pace with his older brother. 

Sometimes it was hard to believe they were brothers. Will was tall and moved with a natural ease and confidence; his blond head held high, shoulders squared. Wesley was small for his age, and was forever tripping over his feet, and bumping into things. He had hoped the situation would improve when the glasses had been prescribed, but the boy seemed as clumsy as ever.

Then there was the difference in their temperaments. Will was bold almost to the point of recklessness, living his life on the principle of act first, think later. He was forever getting into scrapes, and no amount of stern rebukes seemed to discourage him. He smiled in spite of himself. An irrepressible recidivist, with the heart of a lion.

Wesley, on the other hand, seemed to possess all the natural caution that his brother lacked. He was nervous of everything, lacked confidence in his own abilities. True, he wasn't particularly skilled in physical activities, but he was a quick study, and had a great intellectual curiosity. He would make an excellent researcher or translator for the Council. He'd never be a watcher, of course, but then that wasn't his destiny. That was Will's calling.

'William, slow down.' He called out sharply.

Wesley stopped and turned to face him obediently, but Will carried on. He sighed in exasperation and picked up his pace.

 

*~*~*~*

 

'Wes!' 

He did not respond, remained perfectly still under the bedclothes.

'Wesley, you awake?' His brother hissed again.

He kept his eyes closed tight, knowing that he would not be fooled.

'Come on, Wes, I know you're awake.'

He finally gave in; sat up in the small bed and blinked at the fuzzy image of his older brother, who appeared to be kneeling on the bed beside him. He reached out to the bedside table, feeling for his glasses, and pushed them on. Will was no longer clad in pyjamas; he had changed into a shirt, trousers, and a heavy pullover, and was positively bouncing with energy. Wesley felt his heart sink.

'Come on, get dressed!'

Will thumped him lightly on the arm, and indicated a pile of clothes on the chair by the door.

'I'm sleepy, Will. What time is it?'

'Just after eleven. Hurry up and get dressed.'

He got out of bed and padded over to the chair, resignedly stripping off his own pyjamas and replacing them with his outdoor clothes.

'Where are we going?' He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from adding 'this time'.

'You heard them at dinner? Father and Uncle Henry, talking about the gathering at Whitby.'

He couldn't deny that. They had both been listening avidly to the conversation, which was one of the reasons their father had come to York to visit Uncle Henry. The council had been informed that there was to be a large gathering of vampires at Whitby, apparently in some sort of twisted homage to Bram Stoker. Dracula fanatics, their uncle had called them. It was their father's job to collect as much information as possible about these vampires, and plan an attack strategy for the council.

'Mm.' He dreaded to think what Will was planning.

'We should go. And track them, you know.'

He looked at his brother in sheer horror.

'You must be mad! It's the middle of the night, and you know we're not supposed to go out after dark. And what if Father or Uncle Henry catches us? We'd get killed! That's if the vampires don't get us first!'

What made him most angry was the smile on his brother's face. That self-assured, relaxed, mocking grin, displaying a confidence that he would never possess.

'God, Wes, who are you more scared of? Father or the vamps?' The little note of scorn in his brother's voice made him feel even more pathetic.

'It's not that. I just don't think... ' He didn't know what he wanted to say.

'Come on, Wes,' he wheedled. 'We'll be fine. I just want to practise my tracking skills. They'll never know we were gone.'

'Will, no.'

'Aw, come on! Don't be such a baby. Wes, I need you to be my back-up.'

Wesley looked up into his older brother's shining eyes, wanting desperately to be as brave and bold as Will, and not quite so afraid of the consequences if they were caught. He wavered as Will pushed up the sash window, eyeing him with something nearing contempt.

'Fine. Stay here. Be a baby.' He spat.

'No, wait! I'm coming.'

As usual, when faced with a choice between Will's disgust and his own terror, he chose the latter. It was easier to live with fear than his brother's contempt.

He pushed his glasses up nervously and followed his older brother out the bedroom window. 

 

The night air was damp, but not too cold. Warm enough, in fact, for them to be out without their coats. Not that they would have worn them anyway. It would have been too risky to creep downstairs to collect them from the cloakroom.

They moved quietly, the younger following older, straining to keep up with the twelve year old's longer legs. The leader and the follower. As it had always been and ever would be.

'Will.' His voice so soft, barely heard above the rustle of the wind in the trees.

'What?' Exasperation evident in his brother's tone, as he stopped and turned to Wesley.

'What are we going to do if we find them?' His fear betrayed by the tremble in his voice.

'Invite them back to Uncle Henry's for tea.'

Will looked at him, and cracked a grin at the expression of horror he couldn't keep off his face. 

'I'm joking, Wes. God, you are so easy to wind up!

He reached into his pocket, and brought out two freshly sharpened stakes, handing one to Wesley.

'You know what to do, right?

He stared at the weapon; the wave of terror currently sweeping over him had little to do with the actual object.

'Where did you get these?' He whispered.

'Swiped them from Uncle Henry's study. Father left them in the desk drawer.'

Wesley dropped the stake as if it were red hot. His brother picked it up and handed it back.

'Come on. Take it. We're already in trouble.'

What had happened to 'They'll never know we were gone.'

'Might as well be properly armed if we come across the vamps.'

Will turned again, and followed, more terrified than ever.

Wesley rarely disobeyed his father, lived in awe of the man, but Will never seemed to be intimidated by him. His father took pride in his elder son's abilities, his prowess in battle skills and tracking. Wesley would watch them shyly sometimes when they sparred together. His father giving instructions and directions as they fought, Will following them easily, as if his body had been designed for that purpose alone. Not for the first time, Wesley wondered for what purpose he had been designed. He swallowed and ran a little to catch up with his brother.

 

He should have been more forceful, should have stood up to his brother back in their bedroom. But he had been weak, cowardly, and now they were in this nightmare scenario. It was just so dark. Will had been out in front, moving quickly across the moors, and then suddenly he had disappeared. He had frozen, rooted to the ground in terror.

'Will!' His voice suddenly sounded appallingly loud in the darkness.

There was the sound of whimpering up ahead, and he forced his feet to move towards the noise. He came to the edge of a narrow gully, and peered down into it. He could just make out a huddled shape at the bottom of the ditch.

'Will, a - are you okay?' 

'Wes, I can't move.' He sounded as if he was in pain. 'I think I've broken my leg.'

Wesley knelt at the top of the gully, and looked into the dried up streambed, where his brother had fallen. He could see his leg bent awkwardly under him, and his face was deathly pale. Wesley began to make his way down the grassy slope.

'No!' His older brother hissed.

'But I can help you.' 

'You're too small, Wes.' But he said it apologetically, without any malice. 'We'd never make it home. You've got to go and get help. Get Father.'

It was bad, then.

'But I can't leave you here! The vampires...'

'I'll be fine. I've got stakes; I've got my cross. Anyway, they don't even know I'm here.'

He hesitated, unwilling to leave his brother.

'Oh, for God's sake, just go! Don't be such a baby!'

At the frustration in Will's tone, Wesley obeyed.

'I'll be back soon, I promise.'

He ran then, as fast as he had ever run, twigs snapping, branches tearing at his arms as his heart thudded in his chest. He did not slow even when the lights of his uncle's house came into view. Headed straight for the front door of the house, then skidded to a halt.

Small fists hammered against solid oak, pounding as hard as he could, until the bolts were drawn back, and the heavy wooden door swung open.

His father stood in the doorway, staring at him.

For one long terrible moment, Wesley could not speak.

'What in God's name are you doing out there, boy?'

He thought involuntarily of the previous evening, when he had been caught reading under the bedcovers, after his mother had put his light out. His father had given him a solemn lecture on disobedience, followed by a more physical expression of his displeasure. He swallowed at the thought of the punishment that awaited him for this transgression.

'Father, p - please, it's Will. He fell; he's in trouble. He said to get you... we were out, tracking those vampires...'

His father seized his arm, in a grip tight enough to leave bruises, and he yelped in pain.

'Where, boy?' he dragged him into the hall, into the study, his uncle standing up in surprise.

'I can show you. Please, sir, we have to hurry.'

The two men grabbed weapons from the cabinet, and they took off at speed, Wesley leading the way.

It hadn't seemed so far before. Wesley ran ahead, trying to remember exactly which fields they had passed through. Both his father and uncle carried powerful torches, which provided illumination for the immediate vicinity, but only served to make the unlit areas even more sinister.

After what felt like an age to Wesley, they reached the top of the gully. His father shone his torch downwards. The light reflected off his brother's face, but his eyes were closed now.

(He's only sleeping, he's okay, he's going to be fine)

'Will, are you all right?'

His father's voice, full of anxious concern. He was already halfway down the grassy slope.

'William, you answer me now, boy, or you won't sit for a week!'

The pale figure made no response.

(He's okay, he's just resting, please don't be cross with him)

He followed his father down into the gully, feet slithering wildly on the muddy grass. His heart beating so loudly he could hear it in his ears. By now, the older man was at his brother's side.

'Will, wake up.' His father's voice was soft now, much more scary than the stern tone he had used earlier.

He slid his hand against his neck, checking for a pulse. Wesley landed by his brother as his father drew his hand back slowly. The torch by him on the ground illuminated the viscous red liquid, which now coated his fingers.

'No.' Barely a whisper, then the torch was seized, shone onto the boy's neck. Deep puncture wounds clearly visible under its harsh glare, the holes already crusting, turning ruby dark.

'No, Will, no. My boy, no.' 

Beside him, his father's voice cracked, his bloodied hand flung the torch down so hard it shattered the bulb. 

And they were in darkness.

 

*~*~*~

 

That was where he belonged. 

He had left his brother out there in the dark, helpless and alone. Let him be killed.

And they had been in the dark ever since. His mother spent her days mourning the loss of her perfect child, reliving his funeral in the scent of lilies in the hall. It wasn't that she didn't love Wesley; it was just that she had loved Will so much more. Wesley was an afterthought. She loved him when she remembered about him.

He pulled his knees tighter to his chest, and shivered a little. His father had become harsher, would no longer tolerate weakness or disobedience. And he was so weak. Always trying to be more like him, but always failing. Making stupid, clumsy mistakes. Making Father angry. Because he would never be good enough. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be Will.

There was a distant click, and a faint golden line of light suddenly appeared at the foot of the door. The study lamp had been turned on. He held his breath, listened to the footsteps on the tiled floor outside his prison. The key was turned in the lock, and he shoved the coat off to one side, his stomach light with nerves.

His father opened the door wide.

'Out, please, Wesley.'

He obeyed, his legs stiff with cramp, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Then stood before his father, head bowed, clasping his hands behind his back.

'It's late, boy. Time you were in bed.'

A voice he can barely remember, full of gruff concern.

'Yes, sir.' He answered meekly, starting towards the stairs.

'Wait.' 

He stopped, wondering if this was a trick, if he was going to be put back into the cupboard, a new twist to his punishment. He raised his eyes to his father's, and was shocked to see him in the grip of some powerful emotion.

'Wesley, these things have to be done. You understand that, don't you?'

Not really sure what his answer was supposed to be.

'Yes, Father.' 

The man placed his hand on his shoulder, and he could not stop the automatic reflex that made him flinch at the contact.

'Go to bed, boy.'

He obeyed, moved towards the stairs slowly. And for one moment he imagined he could feel his father's fingers flicker onto his head in a brief tender caress. He bit his lip hard, controlling the tremble there, and headed upstairs.

The ghost of his father's touch still upon him.

 

FIN


End file.
